


My Love is as a Fever

by ereshai



Series: Various Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ereshai/pseuds/ereshai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames seduces Arthur with Shakespeare.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Love is as a Fever

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ. Written for an Inception kink meme prompt.

It was all Arthur’s fault, Eames decided.  
  
It wasn’t enough he used those lovely big words – like specificity, _God, he loved a man with a brain_ – but then Arthur started _quoting_.  
  
“Getting close to this one’s going to be bloody difficult, Arthur. The man didn’t trust his own mother. We’ll have to do this the hard way.” Eames threw the mark’s file down on his desk and rubbed his eyes.  
  
“‘Life grants nothing to us mortals without hard work,’ as the poet said. We’ll figure it out, Eames.” Arthur turned back to his laptop, leaving Eames to stare at him with more than a little lust. Not that Arthur seemed to notice.  
  
Big vocabulary, quotes, his competency in, well, _everything_ , his lithe, muscular body…Eames stopped himself before lost control completely. He knew he was a good actor, but he must have given himself away in a thousand different ways. Arthur _had_ to know Eames wanted him. The problem was that Arthur _was_ brilliant at everything, including hiding what he was feeling from everyone else.  
  
Almost everyone else. Arthur had given himself away in a thousand ways, too, at least to Eames. Covert glances, lingering touches, those little half smiles, standing just a little bit too close… it was enough to give him hope and make him tear his hair out in frustration at the same time. So Eames decided to change the game. Enough with letting Arthur move at his own pace. They would both be twenty years in their graves before he even hinted that he saw Eames as more than a slightly (okay, perhaps more than slightly) annoying, sometime coworker.  
  
**  
  
Arthur sat at his desk, going over some bit of research or another. It was the end of a very long day, and he had his head propped on his hand while he flipped through the pages. Eames came up behind him.  
  
“Finished for the day, Eames?” He didn’t look up from the file.  
  
Eames leaned down and murmured in his ear, “’O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!’”  
  
Arthur didn’t respond for a few long moments. “ _Romeo and Juliet_ , act two, scene two. Was there something you wanted, Mr. Eames?”  
  
Eames grinned. “’Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.’”  
  
“Once again, act two, scene two. From a play where two people kill themselves at the end. Are you trying to tell me something?”  
  
Maybe _Romeo and Juliet_ wasn’t the way to go. “Just saying good night, darling.”  
  
“Good night, Mr. Eames.”  
  
Eames sauntered away, his confidence in his plan in no way shaken. Shakespeare had written more than one play.  
  
**  
  
He tried again the next day. Arthur, being Arthur, was straightening out some nightmare of logistics, scheduling, and payoffs that frankly gave Eames a headache. And a raging erection as he watched Arthur coolly arrange everything as if it were a Sunday picnic. _Sheer, bloody competence._ Eames wanted to lick him everywhere. He wanted Arthur to lick _him_ everywhere. He’d be very good at it.  
  
Arthur was looking over their architect’s models when Eames came up behind him again. He didn’t wait for Arthur to acknowledge him before he whispered in his ear, “’Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! And when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.’” He had decided early in his plan that he had to create intimacy between them, and what could be more intimate than sweet nothings, or in this case, Shakespearean quotes, whispered in your ear? He fought to keep his hands from Arthur’s hips – as much as he longed to touch him, he didn’t think Arthur was ready for that. And Eames wasn’t sure he would be able to let him go once he did get his hands on him. Arthur had to make the first physical move in this game.  
  
“ _Othello_ , act three, scene three. A man who kills his wife in a jealous rage, and then kills himself. What _are_ you trying to tell me, Mr. Eames?”  
Arthur turned his head and looked at him, one brow raised. For a moment, their faces were just inches apart. Eames could feel Arthur’s breath on his lips and he drew back.  
  
“Nothing, darling. Just trying to pay a compliment.”  
  
“I do not think it means what you think it means.”  
  
Eames smirked at him, undeterred. “Possibly not. See you tomorrow, love.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked out of the building, whistling. So, no _Othello_. Well, there was plenty more where that came from.  
  
**  
  
Eames was bored. His part in the impending extraction was set; he had no more preparations to make, other than practicing his forge in the dreamscape, and he could only do that so many times before he lost his bloody mind. Nobody else really had much to do, either, except Arthur, who never seemed to stop working. Eames, Terry, their extractor, and John, their architect, were sitting around, swapping stories of past extractions gone horribly wrong.  
  
Eames had just finished the story of his first job, when he had discovered his talent for forging in dreams, embellished only slightly. Terry and John were laughing, but Eames heard Arthur’s soft _hmph_ of disbelief. Terry launched into the story of his first job as Eames ambled over to Arthur’s desk.  
  
He leaned over, inhaling Arthur’s subtle scent, then whispered, “’ Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.’” He was raising the stakes a little with what could almost be considered a challenge, but he was willing to risk pushing Arthur away if success meant winning Arthur himself.  
  
Arthur stilled, and then continued taking notes. “ _Hamlet_ , act two, scene two. A man who drove his lover to suicide and was then murdered. I’m impressed, Eames, you’ve managed to indirectly reference death through Shakespeare three times in as many days. Is this a variation of the black spot? Are you planning to kill me?”  
  
Eames sighed impatiently. Arthur was being deliberately obtuse. “If I was going to kill you, love, I wouldn’t be so stupid as to warn you first.” He walked away before his frustration boiled over into a very public – and physical - demonstration of what he really wanted.  
  
Perhaps the plays weren’t the right source. He’d start on the sonnets tomorrow.  
  
**  
  
Eames had to put his plan on hold. The job had finally come together, and while he was not opposed to the occasional double _entendre_ on the job, he was professional enough not to distract Arthur while they were working in a dream. Not that Arthur would allow himself to be distracted. But Eames was professional enough not to try. Or, at least, not try very hard.  
  
With a successful extraction behind them, the team went their separate ways. Eames knew he would be seeing Arthur on their next job, which would be starting in about a month. That gave him more time to polish his delivery. The sonnets he had chosen were sure to do the trick.  
  
**  
  
And here they were again. They fell into a routine whenever they worked together, even though the setting was always different. Not only were their work patterns the same, but their interactions, as well. The good-natured sniping back and forth, avoiding what they really wanted to say, wanting each other, but neither willing to be the first to give in. Eames knew it had to end soon, if only for his sanity’s sake. And for Arthur’s sake, as well. If the man kept clenching his jaw like that, his teeth were going to crack.  
  
“Eames, do you still have the file on the mark’s ex-wife? It’s not on my desk, _where it should be_.” Arthur strode over to Eames’ desk and stopped in front of it, his arms crossed.  
  
“Right here, sweeting.” Eames handed the file to him.  
  
“Did you just call-? That’s new.” Arthur flipped through the pages absently.  
  
“Just keeping you on your toes, love.” Eames leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head.  
  
“I see. Please return any and all files to my desk when you’re done with them. I’m not asking you to alphabetize them, just place them somewhere, anywhere, on my desk.” He turned and walked back to his desk.  
  
“’Being your slave, what should I do but tend  
Upon the hours and times of your desire?  
I have no precious time at all to spend,  
Nor services to do, till you require.’” Eames began quietly, just above a whisper. Arthur stopped abruptly.  
  
Eames continued, “’Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour  
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,  
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour  
When you have bid your servant once adieu;  
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought  
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,  
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought  
Save, where you are how happy you make those.  
So true a fool is love that in your will,  
Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.’”  
  
Arthur turned and looked at him, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. “Sonnet 57. What are you up to, Mr. Eames?”  
  
Eames did not respond. He looked into Arthur’s eyes, his face solemn. Perhaps Arthur thought he wasn’t serious. Perhaps that had been the problem all along. Eames knew he tended to make light of situations, but in this game, he was playing for keeps. He tried again.  
  
“’When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,  
I all alone beweep my outcast state  
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries  
And look upon myself and curse my fate,  
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,  
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,  
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,  
With what I most enjoy contented least;  
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,  
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,  
Like to the lark at break of day arising  
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;  
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings  
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.’”  
  
Arthur walked back, dropping the file carelessly, and planted his hands on the desk, looming over him. “Sonnet 29. Say what you mean, Eames. Stop using someone else’s words.”  
  
“I didn’t think you’d respond well to ‘I want you naked and moaning under me,’ Arthur, though I did think that was a bit better than ‘I want to fuck your brains out.’”  
  
Arthur blinked. “Is that all you want?”  
  
Eames leaned forward in his chair. “That and more. And I want it for the rest of our lives.” He couldn’t believe that had come out of his mouth. Someone much less smooth and confident than himself had taken over his brain.  
  
Arthur reached out and put his hands on either side of Eames’ face. He had one quick, panicked thought, _He’s going to snap my neck like a chicken!,_ before Arthur’s mouth came down on his in a gentle kiss. Despite their awkward position, the kiss deepened, becoming a desperate tangle of lips, teeth, and tongues. Eames stood up and wrapped his arms around Arthur, hauling him up onto the desk, never breaking the kiss.  
  
Finally, Eames pulled away and rested his forehead on Arthur’s shoulder, his chest heaving. Arthur’s breathing was just as labored. They stayed in each other’s arms for minutes? hours? It wasn’t long enough for Eames.  
  
“Eames,” Arthur said when he could speak normally. “Why Shakespeare?”  
  
“What do you mean, why Shakespeare? You started it.” Eames pulled away and frowned at him.  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Arthur hopped off the desk and straightened his waistcoat.  
  
“You quoted him at me first. That thing about mortals and hard work.” He pulled his jacket off the back of his chair and put it on.  
  
“Eames, that was Horace.” Arthur grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and draped it over his arm. He opened the door and waited for Eames to catch up.  
  
“I thought his first name was William.”  
  
“It was. Horace was a Roman poet during the time of Augustus.”  
  
They walked out of the building together, shoulders brushing.  
  
“I don’t really care. Your hotel room, or mine, darling?”


End file.
